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by TheDistantDusk



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2020-01-24 02:55:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18562483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDistantDusk/pseuds/TheDistantDusk
Summary: “Tom made me believe horrible things.” Ginny blurts it out while they’re in bed, her red hair a study in contrast against the white pillowcase.For Belle, on her birthday.





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**Author's Note:**

> This one is dark. Mild implications of assault/manipulation (Ginny/Tom). Trigger warnings, just in case... please do not read if any of that makes you uncomfortable!

“Tom made me believe _horrible_ things.”

Ginny blurts it out while they’re naked in bed, her red hair a study in contrast against the white pillowcase. Harry thinks she’s particularly beautiful in the dying summer sunset; a breeze plays across her face from the open window of her bedroom.

Harry had been lying on his back, a triumphant smirk stretched across his face. It’s the third time they’ve shagged — but the first time he’d gotten _her_ to come in the process. As soon as her words wash over him, though, his smugness vanishes as quickly as he’d finished the first _two._

“Oh?”

Ginny nods, her eyes trained on the ceiling.

Harry rolls to his side before propping his head on his right hand. His hand rakes through her hair, and for the millionth time, he thanks the universe that he’s even getting the chance to do this much. Harry doesn’t know what she means, not yet. But he doesn’t push her to elaborate. He knows she’ll do it herself, when she’s ready.

Ginny doesn’t make him wait long.

“Tom um…” She winces, her eyes never leaving the ceiling. “He _knew_ I was...” She draws a breath as she steadily grows redder. A mortified flush crawls up her chest and spreads like a spiderweb.

Harry moves in closer, his brow creased with worry. He’s only seen her like this a handful of times: After the battle. During Fred’s funeral. The _first_ time he’d made her...

_Oh._

He swallows. _She feels vulnerable_.

“Well, whatever it is,” he assures her, his voice soft and low, “you can tell, me Ginny. I always—”

_“Tom knew I had dreams about you.”_

The words leave in such a rush that Ginny shivers, slamming her eyes closed. They’ve slipped past her lips like poison, like saying them has left her weak — but better for having gotten them out.

Harry eyes her quizzically, takes in how alarmed she looks. He doesn't care that Ginny had dreamt about him, obviously; he'd spent most of sixth year dreaming about her, _like that._ He also knows (because of Hermione) that girls start having dreams like that earlier than boys, that girls, in general, mature faster. He supposes it only makes sense that those dreams would have happened in the first place.

But then Harry considers the _types_ of dreams that Tom would use to his advantage, the types of secrets that man liked to keep. A sickening realization blooms in the pit of his stomach. 

“Dreams?” he asks weakly; he really, _really_ hopes he’s wrong.

Ginny nods, bringing up her hands to stare at her cuticles.

Harry has to ask. He has to _fucking_ ask, even though he probably shouldn’t. “As in...?”

“ _Yes._ ” She confirms, biting her lip. The flush returns to her chest, and her cuticles seem even more fascinating.

Harry hates it when he’s right.

The feelings he’d scarcely permitted to stir come rushing back, churning in his stomach with a mixture of horror and rage. He swallows, a vein ticking in his jaw… and he tries very, _very_ hard to control himself.

“When I dreamt about you. Like _that_ ,” Ginny clarifies. “He um… he’d use that. _Especially._  To convince me you’d never want me, because I was a little girl and you were Harry Potter, and... ”

“I didn’t know girls were a _thing_ when I was twelve,” Harry defends, his hand returning to stroke her hair. He’s not sure why he’s said it. Not sure why it matters.

Ginny’s pleading eyes meet his. “I _know,_  Harry,” she soothes. “I know that. _Now_. But then it seemed…” She trails off with a sigh. Harry’s stomach plummets to his feet. He reckons he feels worse for interrupting her than Tom had ever felt for anything,  _ever_.

Ginny flips over to her stomach. He’s sure the rest of her moves, too, but his eyes are only drawn to her bum. It gives a little bounce as she shifts, pert and dimpled and absolutely _perfect_. He can’t help but remember the way he’d wrapped his palms around her hips while she’d moved on top of him, the way her arse had clenched beneath his hands as she’d cried out.  

Thankfully, Ginny’s not self-conscious, not worried about what he thinks of her body. She never has been; he hopes she never will be. She’s always been content to let Harry drink her in until he’s had his fill.

This time, though, Harry doesn’t _realize_ he’s been staring until his eyes finally rake up her body and meet her eyes.

Ginny just quirks a brow ( _Ready to focus?_ ) and he spreads his palms in sheepish apology. Being naked with her is too new, too different; he hopes she understands.

But Ginny doesn’t object. She just stares at him, brown eyes replete with curious solemnity, and then:

“I don’t know _why_ I’m telling you this right now,” she mutters, pushing hair away from her face. “But I guess it just... _reminded_ me. When you made me, _you know.”_ She waves her hand, and a ghost of a smile flickers across Harry’s face; in spite of everything, he has the audacity to be proud.

She clears her throat. “When Tom first started writing, I didn’t know much _about_ sex.” Ginny bites her lip and stares down at the duvet. “I only really knew that thinking about _you_ did certain things to me.”

Harry almost makes a comment about how she does _loads_ of things to him, but he stops himself just in time. It’s not his story, for once.

“After he found out that you made me... _dream_ ,” Ginny continues, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. She swallows, and he can tell she’s collecting herself, preparing to say the worst bit. He places a hesitant hand on the small of her back. She leans into his touch, inching a little closer, even if she hadn’t quite met his eyes yet.

Harry still takes this as a good sign.

“He _convinced_ me,” Ginny whispers, lost in her thoughts, “that on the off-chance you ever, ever, _ever_ wanted me, that you’d definitely never do more than… that I’d definitely never _deserve_...”

She trails off.

And with that, Harry _finally_ understands why it’s taken so much strength for her to share this.

He knows he only feels a fraction of what Ginny does, that he’s only experienced a portion of the darkness and evil and soul-crushing gloom… but the emotions coursing through his chest and hammering in his heart aren’t simple enough to be explained with words like “sadness” or “guilt.”

He’s disgusted… absolutely _nauseated_ … and he can almost feel the hot, bubbling rage crawling up his throat, pounding behind his eyes, and—

“Are you _fucking serious_?”

The words rip from his lips before he’s given them permission. Harry hadn’t meant to speak at all, not until she was done. He bites the inside of his cheek in penance and focuses on breathing in and out.

The very notion that he’d willingly deny her of pleasure… or-or violate her, _ever_ , is so far from the truth that he nearly laughs. Or _cries_. Really, he can’t decide. Making Ginny happy has been his priority every single day for the past two months; he hopes she understands how comical any alternative might be. He hopes she knows how hard he’d tried to give her that pleasure first.

Ginny’s still staring down at the duvet, playing with a piece of lint between her fingers. She _does_ understand, right? Fuck… he _hopes_ so. Harry’s seized with a sudden compulsion to jump up or pace the room or pull his hair out or _scream_.

But then Ginny nuzzles herself against his chest, and he settles for wrapping his body around hers instead.

“I’m _so_ sorry,” Harry mutters into her hair. “I’d kill him again if I could, Ginny. If I’d _known_ , if you’d _told me_ , I’d—”

“—Well he didn’t really _do_ anything,” Ginny whispers, her fingertips tracing down his chest. “Not _really_.”

_What?_

Harry grasps her hand and cocks his head. After all this time, how is it possible she actually believes that?

“Yes,” he says firmly. “Yes, he _did_.”

Ginny's eyes are still downcast. “But _other girls were_ —”

“—I don’t _care_ what happened to anyone else,” Harry interrupts, his voice so fierce and protective it’s near a roar. She flinches against his chest, just a little, just from the sound — but she’s nonetheless made her point. Harry grimaces, momentarily filled with self-loathing. _Bugger_. No need to scare her, on top of everything else...

Harry swallows and tries his hardest to collect himself. She’s still nestled against him, her face pressed to his sternum, but Harry’s long-since figured out what to do whenever she’s stressed or afraid or unsure. Almost as if she anticipates it, Ginny leans into his fingers as they trail up her neck, slow circles of pressure getting higher and higher until they reach her hair.

He moves his hand until he’s massaging the base of her scalp, and just like during his sixth year, Ginny arches back, her eyelids fluttering; she heaves a sigh of relief.

It does the trick; they both love it when he touches her hair.

After a few moments of comfortable silence, Harry deems it fit to elaborate.

“It still… it still happened to you,” he murmurs, never ceasing the pressure of his fingertips. “You still _get_ to be upset about that, Ginny. You know that, right?”

She doesn’t say anything, so he cups her jaw in his hands and tilts it up. Ginny blinks at him, her eyes curious and seeking. For once, it seems Harry’s given _her_ strength.

When she speaks again, she doesn’t answer his question— but he knows she understands.

“Anyway, I _guess_ ,” Ginny continues, her voice stronger. Her eyes flicker to his. “I guess that when I actually _came_ , it—”

“Yeah,” Harry replies, breathless. He blinks and glances away, trying hard to suppress his anger that Voldemort stole this moment from her, too.

And then, apropos of nothing:

“You remember the rooster blood?” Ginny blurts. She moves to support herself on her left elbow; Harry tries to focus on her face. Her smirk tells him she’s not fooled.

But then Ginny shakes her head, shakes her smile away. “You know,” she continues, her voice soft and serious, “ _the Chamber of Secrets has been opened —”_

“’Course.” Harry’s head stays propped on his right hand, and he vows not to interject again. Not until she’s done.

Ginny heaves another sigh. “Well, that’s when I got my first—”

Another pause.

She cuts herself off and glances at him. Her eyes contain a sort of cautious pain, and Harry knows what she’s thinking; she’s wondering if she’ll have to explain _this_ , too.

For once, Harry’s glad Hermione likes to over-share. He and Ginny haven’t been shagging long enough for it to come up in conversation, but at least he knows the basics.

“I know what periods are,” Harry provides, his hand dropping to the small of her back.

Ginny gives a relieved laugh, her eyes downcast. “ _Good_. I know we haven’t talked about it, but _come on..._ ”

Harry clears his throat. They both know it doesn’t bother him, that he’s content to talk about whatever she wants… but he isn’t going to take the bait. Ginny’s trying to take him down a rabbit hole to get out of explaining whatever she’d started. He also gathers that this tactic works on her brothers — but he’ll be damned if it works on him. In truth, he doesn’t reckon there’s much that will ever make her undesirable; her monthly is probably no exception.

Thus, he refuses to let her wriggle out of finishing what she’d started, provided _some_ part of her still wants to share it.

“—So the rooster?” Harry prompts, raising his eyebrows.

Ginny huffs in resignation, but Harry just smiles; as much as he hates it when she’s uncomfortable, he _loves_ how well he knows her. He loves that he's able to sense what she _really_ wants, loves that he’s able to get to the bottom of things, loves that she’s trusted him enough to share this in the first place.

Harry also knows she’ll explain the rest, when she’s ready. In the meantime, all he can do is caress her back. And wait.

He’s not disappointed.

“The blood,” she mutters a few moments later, her fingers splaying on his chest. “It was… it was _on purpose_. I guess he was trying to punish me. Or something.”

_Oh._

Harry bites the inside of his cheek again and numbly wonders if the _evilness_ of that bastard will ever stop surprising him. “I’m… I’m _sorry,_ ” he whispers. He doesn’t know what else to say; she’d lived through it, not him.

“It’s not _your_ fault. Tom is just…” Ginny wrinkles her nose.

“Tom _was_ just,” Harry corrects softly.

She sighs and leans into his embrace, but he knows she's gotten the point; nothing like _that_ is going to hurt her again.

“He’s _gone_ , Ginny." He lifts her left hand and presses a kiss to her knuckle. "He’s never coming back.” Harry can only hope that his voice is as reassuring as it is deep, that his gentle ministrations on her skin have been enough to dissolve some of the darkness beneath.

Then there’s a brief pause — a half-second wait — and without conscious thought, Harry lets instinct take over.

In one swift motion, he gathers Ginny against him and cradles her head in the crook of his neck. And just as he’d suspected, her whole body _melts_. She relaxes with a gentle smile, nuzzling his chest, and Harry can’t help but draw a deep breath against her scalp.

She still smells like flowers and light and laughter, like endless days of summer, like new beginnings and gentle kisses.

Now, though, she smells like something else: _home_.

Harry’s breath catches in his throat: Ginny smells like _home_.

How the hell has it taken him this long to realize that Ginny smells like home?

Tears sting the backs of Harry’s eyes. How could he ever have imagined _home_ existing without her? He suppresses a shudder and hopes it’s not too much to ask… hopes that whatever force allowed him to return will also let him love her. _Forever_.

“ _He’s gone,_ ” Ginny breathes, and he can tell it’s like she’s giving herself permission — like she’s letting go, once and for all. “He’s _gone._ ”

Harry feels a relieved giggle rise in her throat. He loves that sound, _loves_ when she laughs… he peers down at her against his chest and plays with her hair, letting it slip and glide across his fingers. A warm summer breeze wafts through the window and she shifts, tilting her face up to meet his.

 _Yes_ , Harry agrees as their eyes connect, a lazy grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. _Tom’s finally gone_.


End file.
